Support in a Cuppa
by Wind-in-the-Sage
Summary: Sherlock realizes John is there for him in more ways than one.


Sherlock stumbled as he landed on the next roof, grateful he'd been able to make the jump. He very nearly leapt up and kept running, but just as he got to his knees decided his pursuer might use this chance. He ducked behind the short extension of the wall above the roof. His mistake luckily drew the man's fire, causing him to waste a few bullets. Sherlock waited a moment longer, listening for his steps to continue again and looking for any obstacles or elements on the roof he could use to complicate this simple run-and-hide which he was sure couldn't last for long.

He sprang up, having no more time to waste, though he hadn't seen anything that would get him out of this. Now he was getting quite worried. He cursed leaving his gun behind and ran across the roof, keeping tabs on the other man with his ears and looking for an escape with his eyes. His shadow danced in front of him. He knew this was giving his pursuer an easy view of him. How could he change that?

The distance to the next building was similar. He couldn't pull the same stunt this time. But there! Roof access. Could he hide under the stairs? He focused on the jump. It'd be useful this time if he could land on his feet. He ran to the edge, jumped up on the wall and kept his momentum, pushing off with one foot.

Something hit him in the middle, and then he was reaching for a grip on the next roof, only catching it because hitting the corner stopped his forward velocity. Luckily, he had something of a lip to grab onto. Unluckily, he could hear footsteps behind him and he only had a grip with one hand. Whatever had hit him had come from an accomplice below. He was a cornered, stationary bullseye. And his fingers were already numb.

He looked down to see if he could drop—nothing but concrete—and tried to get a foothold as his pursuer began speaking. Sherlock hardly listened. Only enough to discover it was a recap of what his enemy knew, what he had figured out, what Sherlock had figured out, etc. Where was John when he needed him? He tried not to need him, but sometimes criminals had other ideas.

"So this will be the end, I'm afraid," he heard behind him.

~~SH~~

There was a banging and Sherlock's eyes snapped violently open. "You can't sleep all day, Sherlock!" John yelled through the door.

"Finally! What took you so long?" he yelled back, sounding angry. Oh. He was in his flat. No pursuer, then?

He heaved a sigh as he heard, "Sherlock, wh—?" John gave up and went silent.

"What time is it?" There wasn't a response. Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed his robe, throwing it on and opening the door. John wasn't there. He walked to the kitchen, in desperate need of a cuppa. There was a steaming cup on the counter. Ah, lovely. He picked it up and leaned against the counter, casting his gaze upon his halted experiment strewn about the kitchen table. Wait. He looked to his right. The residue of spilled sucrose solution was untouched. Mrs. Hudson hadn't been here. She wouldn't let the counters stay sticky. He looked at his cup. The string on the teabag was hanging down over the handle. Mrs. Hudson put the string on the opposite side to hold the handle with her right hand and the string with her left. John had made him tea.

And he had disappeared from the flat. "Mrs. Hudson!"

A few moments later, she puttered in. "Oh. Sherlock, I've told you not to yell."

"When did John leave?"

"Ten minutes ago I should think. Said he was going out looking for..."

He tuned her out. Ten minutes? Hadn't he just knocked on his door thirty seconds ago? Hmm... The state between waking and sleeping could have quite the capacity to disrupt perception of reality, and, more importantly, accuracy of eye-witness accounts. He'd have to remember that.

"...of course, I could never imagine doing such a thing, but Mrs. Thompson always has been that—"

"That will be all, Mrs. Hudson, thank you." He began pushing her to the door, impatient to begin his experiment.

"Oh, but this mess!" she exclaimed, ducking around him and wetting a rag. "You can't leave sticky messes on the counter. We'll get ants!"

He let her clean it up and sat at his microscope, plugging it in. Ten minutes ago? He recalled his dream and what he'd said to his imaginary John Watson. He chuckled. John actually was there for him, though not with a gun but with tea. Hm. Symbolic, perhaps?

No matter. These algae colonies wouldn't warm up on their own. He went to retrieve his slides from the fridge.


End file.
